


Your Good Boy (For Now)

by cullenlovesmen



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anonymous Sex, Chastity Vows, Coming Untouched, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Misuse of Vegetables, Object Insertion, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Read at Your Own Risk, Sebastian is a really really really horny bottom here, Size Kink, Vegetables, oversensitivity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:41:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26677636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cullenlovesmen/pseuds/cullenlovesmen
Summary: You don't fall in love with hands, or grunts, or faceless helmets. You fall in love with a person; their conversation and the way they look at you when they caress you — and so long as The Templar betrays none of that, Sebastian is safe.
Relationships: Sebastian Vael/Anonymous Templar, Sebastian Vael/Cucumber
Comments: 8
Kudos: 32





	Your Good Boy (For Now)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [barbex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbex/gifts).



> For my dear [Barbex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbex), who's always generous and helpful. <3

The Templar's quarters are silent, save for the crackling fire in the hearth, as Sebastian glides through the door and closes it soundlessly behind himself. The Templar, ever vigilant, is ready for him, sitting against the headboard of his bed, his helmeted head turned towards Sebastian. All dressed up in his armour, save for his gauntlets; his usual attire.

Sebastian manages a sheepish smile; _sorry I'm here again_. The apology goes unsaid — it's pointless — as Sebastian approaches the bed slowly, almost seductively. He can never tell if his efforts have an effect; The Templar's visor is merely a slit in his helmet, no discernible eyes meet his, and yet the man must see. He's never missed his target. 

Sebastian takes a look at the small basket next to The Templar, humming in thrilled satisfaction at today's selection. His hand reaches out, fingers tracking the surface of one of the items, the grooves and nodules making his heart race and breath catch in his throat. 

The delicious moment snaps, however, when The Templar covers his hand with his own, pulling Sebastian gently towards him.

Sebastian bites his lip as he crawls on all fours, settling himself until his chest covers The Templar's legs, until his aching parts throb between The Templar's thighs — until his backside is tilted shamelessly, so close and easy for The Templar to play with. No hiding from that invisible gaze. No finding the man’s cock: it’s always arranged against the man’s stomach, out of reach but never out of Sebastian’s mind.

The Templar lays two hands onto the solid mass of Sebastian’s buttocks, and so it begins. Sebastian relaxes against the man's kilt-covered body, pressing his head on top of an armoured boot, and sucks in a breath as The Templar slowly, tortuously, slides his robes up, up, up, ever so languidly, and Sebastian forgets to exhale before the cool air of the room tickles at his hole. 

The fabric of the robe rests on his back, and he shivers in the delicious discomfort of being exposed in this way: The Templar likes to take his time merely looking at him. Relish and indulge himself by inspecting Sebastian thoroughly before they proceed. Saying nothing. 

He never says a thing. To say something would ruin everything; Sebastian isn't supposed to know who he is. It helps not to see his eyes, or hear his voice. Sometimes the man groans, or grunts, or moans, but it's never words. He communicates through his hands; gentle caresses for good boys, bruising pinches for bad ones. 

You don't fall in love with hands, or grunts, or faceless helmets. You fall in love with a person; their conversation and the way they look at you when they caress you — and so long as The Templar betrays none of that, Sebastian is safe. 

And tonight Sebastian wants to be good, to be taken with tenderness and care, and so he tilts his hip ever so slightly. A very polite request. 

Thankfully, the message gets through; the warm hands return onto his buttocks, massaging them; holding them apart for a better look at his hole, then squeezing them together again. Sebastian thinks he hears a sharp breath as he winks at the man with his hole — and just like that, the hands are gone. 

Only to return moments later, oiled and persistent in their massage. A growl of frustration leaves Sebastian as his hole is neglected, but he allows the delay; on a quick look it might seem the man is servicing Sebastian, but that's not the entirety of this… arrangement. The Templar is in this for his own ends, and Sebastian is nothing if not a polite and patient man, ready to give The Templar his due. 

So long as it isn't sex. 

That would be vow breaking. 

A slick thumb slides down his buttock, its course heading for his hole — Sebastian gasps in anticipation, jerking involuntarily as the rough pad of that finger begins to circle him. Smearing him with the slick, soft oil. A moan escapes as the pressure goes from feather light to insistent, and, yes, yes, yes, he wants it to slip inside so desperately. It's been too long, at least a week, and he wants to be ready for the—

The thumb pushes inside, crooking towards Sebastian’s spine, the rest of The Templar's fingers rubbing at the empty space between his legs. Not quite touching his balls. Sebastian mewls as the rough pad circles around his sweet spot, undulating his hips slightly for a better angle. 

But the hand on his buttock pinches his skin painfully, and Sebastian halts immediately. He wants to be a good boy tonight — the sweetest The Templar has ever seen — and so, he succumbs to the teasing, the brushes of the thumb that miss his pleasure spot just-so. He endures for the ecstasy that awaits in The Templar's basket. 

The hard fingers on his skin relax, smoothing over the aching spot — and then, the thumb inside of him brushes gently over the bundle of pleasure it has so painstakingly avoided. Sebastian tenses, grabbing a hold of The Templar’s armoured feet, and moans deep and low. 

He’s always been so sensitive down there, so needy and eager the moment there’s a promise of touch, so reckless with want the moment someone’s hand — or cock — comes near it. Even now, even with his vows, he can’t quite bring himself to refuse a touch. No cocks, though, lest the promise he’s made the Bride of the Maker breaks. 

But this? Fingers? He hopes he’s forgiven; he’s only human. A weak, fragile human with his ass begging for a touch, just enough to help him through the trials thrown his way.

He slumps heavily on The Templar’s legs as the gentle brushes turn into an insistent pressure. Back and forth the thumb goes, and Sebastian makes no effort to hide the corresponding jerks of his body, feels no shame as his cock smears the man’s kilt with precome, does nothing to contain the sounds of his pleasure. 

The hand on his buttock circles reverently around and around, its path smooth and slick, and Sebastian can just about imagine how he must look. Spread out like a whore on a man’s lap, oil shiny on his buttocks, hands all over them — squeezing, pinching, teasing, his toes leaning against the bed’s headboard. A wanton, obscene sight; the bunched-up Chantry robes a compelling touch in the picture of sin. 

He could come from the thought alone, from the heavy, delicious guilt coursing through his blood, but he knows the painting isn’t complete. And so he writhes as the thumb leaves him, quickly replaced by other fingers. He doesn’t know how many, but the stretch of his hole tells him it’s the final stage of this first act — and he dares to rush it by pushing against them, nudging back and forth, willing himself to relax. 

The hand on his buttock continues its tender caresses, thank goodness. Sebastian is still a good boy, if not a little too eager and much too greedy. 

As the fingers finally leave him, he shivers; the other hand leaves him, too, and the vulnerability of his position comes back to him. He winks with his hole, to communicate how ready he is, how patient in his desperation. 

A muted chuckle responds to him as The Templar makes his preparations, the sound going straight down Sebastian’s belly, adding to the excitement already hanging heavy between his legs. Perhaps that is the drop that sends the goblet overflowing; Sebastian begs with his words, a rough string of pleas murmured against the man’s ankle.

At last, The Templar holds out an item for Sebastian to see, and Sebastian’s breath locks in his chest; a shiver goes through him that surely the man can see, and he nods frantically. Spreading his thighs a touch wider, though it barely helps; there’s not much wider he can bend. 

The tip of the cucumber — the monstrous, wide and long, ridged and grooved vegetable he admired in the basket; thank goodness, oh thank goodness it’s that one — brushes against his hole, and Sebastian twitches, a gasp breaking free. Blood pounds in his ears as he seeks the head of the object. This indolence he’s allowed; it’s a game the two of them play. The Templar watches as Sebastian swallows down whatever object he’s holding, unmoving until its entire length is seated inside. 

The cucumber is warm and slick, and Sebastian closes his eyes as he positions himself, calculating angles in his mind. Then he relaxes himself as much as he can and pushes against the vegetable, relishing the way its ridges feel against the rim of his hole. His movements are tiny pushes and pulls; he nudges gently at the cucumber, as though asking for it nicely, and The Templar hums in satisfaction, bringing a hand to rest on the small of his back.

And thus he swings, back and forth, the stretch around the vegetable a delicious burn shooting pleasure through his entire body, and at last the tense ring of muscles gives. Sebastian’s little sips turn to greedy gulps; he rocks backwards in large, gratuitous waves, receding just a little bit. Mind nearly blank by the time he meets The Templar’s grip. 

Oh, Maker, but he’s so full. The burn is overwhelming, the stretch around his rim almost impossible — and yet he knows he could take more. He nearly comes as he imagines The Templar letting go of the vegetable, allowing Sebastian to devour it whole. Could he even dispose of it on his own, or would he spend hours — maybe even days — with its weight lodged deep inside of him? Would it stay in place as he performed his morning prayers, made breakfast for the entire cloister? Would it press against his pleasure spot as he went about his tasks, for all the world an ordinary Brother, if a little dazed and inexplicably happy?

“Please,” he breathes, gripping The Templar’s feet so tightly it’d hurt if they weren’t armoured. Sebastian’s part is over for now; The Templar has looked his fill, now the cards are in his hands — and Sebastian is such a good boy tonight, the sweetest the man will ever meet. 

There’s a grunt, and the hand on Sebastian’s back moves downwards, sliding until it’s grabbing a hold of Sebastian’s buttock, spreading it for a better view.

Sebastian imagines the sight of him again, looking down on himself as though through the ceiling: the previous debauchery now so much worse as the cucumber slides in and out of him, never leaving him. Oh, but were the Maker now looking, would He forgive the trespass of His wanton child? Sebastian can only pray — but the plea escapes his mind as The Templar changes the angle, twisting the vegetable so that it presses directly against Sebastian’s pleasure spot.

The nodules… the ridges… the unforgiving shape of it, the weight of it, the slow force The Templar applies. 

Sebastian nearly bites the man’s ankle to stop from yelling; a tear escapes his eye as the ecstasy intensifies. It’s like a cock. It’s so like a cock. The fleshy hardness of it, the girth and the warmth and the blinding precision with which it pummels him, driving him to distraction. It transforms in his mind; it’s The Templar’s cock, driving into him in deep, slick thrusts. A breath on his neck, a weight on his back, and that ever-growing need to babble his pleasure as he’s fucked and filled and wanted and taken. 

In this dream, The Templar would talk, too. He would have a name, and Sebastian’s own would be so sweet on his lips, and Sebastian would be the loveliest bad boy The Templar had ever seen. The Templar would have eyes like the crowning jewel on a handsome face, and his cock would be hard and big and dripping just for Sebastian, just for Sebastian to embrace with his body, to keep it safe and hard and forever lodged deep inside of him. 

The Templar groans as Sebastian lets out a cry, and that’s enough to send him spilling. The cucumber doesn’t stop — it moves in hard, slow thrusts, blinding Sebastian’s vision with white-hot pleasure each time its ridges and nodules stroke against that sweet spot. The Templar never stops until Sebastian is sobbing, writhing, soaked with oil and his own come, pushed too far to speak. 

The stain of Sebastian’s come cools on The Templar’s kilt, and Sebastian endures, nudging his cheek against The Templar’s ankle, letting the familiar scent soothe him as the cucumber inside of him carries on. 

Always so slow. Always so meticulous. 

Is this how The Templar uses his cock, too? Sebastian can imagine it; the man prolonging every thrust, keeping his own pleasure peripheral as he gives and gives and gives… The angle always right, his arms a soothing cage as he fucks Sebastian past the point of oversensitivity. 

A weak burst of come flows out of him at the thought. 

He wants nothing more than to push the cucumber out of himself, back up until he hovers above The Templar’s lap, pull down that kilt, and descend on that cock. Find out how it lodges into him, how it fucks all sense out of him — until he’s sobbing with relief and ecstasy, taken for the first time in ten years and too far gone to care about the noises he makes. 

The cucumber stops at last; Sebastian realises he’s writhing, the muscles of his backside vibrating from the strain of staying upright, of taking what he’s given. A wretched, tired sound bubbles up from his throat, and The Templar's tender hand caresses his buttock, the other withdrawing the cucumber in a slow, careful pull. 

It’s over. 

He wipes his eyes and lifts himself weakly, taking his time to gather what strength he has left. Once he’s finally sitting and fully covered, he turns back towards The Templar, watching the outline of his raging hard cock poke from the kilt. Saliva floods his mouth, and it takes all his willpower to keep from peeling away the fabric covering it and devouring it with his mouth — but instead, he flicks a look at the slit in The Templar’s helmet, slowly reaching a hand to touch the bulge.

Just one long stroke. One feel, just to fuel his dreams. Just to help him stay strong against any obstacles and temptations thrown his way. Just to help him pass the lonely nights in the cloister. One slow, tortuous, self-indulgent stroke. Just this once.

He nearly chokes at how hard it is; how thick and mouthwatering and long and absolutely delectable. Sebastian moves his hand so very gradually, starting from its broad base; then there are plump ridges, perhaps veins, along the thick shaft and, finally, a fat, bulbous head that would burn so much around Sebastian’s rim, push so mercilessly against his pleasure spot. 

He’s hardening again, swallowing down the excess saliva from his mouth, ass throbbing with empty want. But he’s come here to be a good boy, and so he withdraws his hand, whispers a wretched ‘thank you’, and leaves. Knowing full well it’s only a matter of time before something in him gives. 

Knowing very well that when he comes here, for once determined to be a bad boy, it’ll be so worth the wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Did you like it? If you did, please consider leaving a kudos or a comment; those make me smile so hard. :)


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